


the voice in your head

by Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Anxiety Disorder, Awkward Dates, Bottom Malcolm Bright, Canon Character of Color, Case Fic, Daddy Kink, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Honey Trap, M/M, Mental Instability, Older Man/Younger Man, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sub Malcolm Bright, Subdrop, Submissive Character, Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21876988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: “A lead, Gil,” he repeats, then pauses. He looks up at the ceiling with his phone balanced on his palm. “Okay, so, before I tell you how I found—”“You made a profile on that nerdy dating site,” Gil guesses without missing a beat. He throws his pen onto the paperwork spread across his desk. “Damn it, Bright, why can’t you—”“I know, I’m sorry.” Malcolm winces, though it’s mostly a lie. There’s certainly apartof him that’s sorry—a small part taking a backseat to the rest of him that’s ready and eager to catch this guy. “But he’s very interested in meeting me for dinner two hours from now, and if he’s the killer and he’s escalating, this might be our best chance to stop him before he takes out another innocent victim.”---[Originally written in Dec 2019, but fully revised and split into two chapters for easier reading.]
Relationships: Gil Arroyo/Malcolm Bright
Comments: 59
Kudos: 295





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [Originally written in Dec 2019, but fully revised and split into two chapters for easier reading.]
> 
> Written entirely because I couldn't get over the fact that Gil said "How far would you like to be permitted to take this?" over the comm to Malcolm in Season 1 episode 9. Takes place after that ep, but presumably before the mid-season finale. Epic thank yous to grimdarkfandago for the original beta'ing!

“This looks familiar,” Gil says with a heavy sigh. He props his hands at his belt. “Bright, what do you think? Same killer?”

There’s no question this crime scene mirrors the one across town. Only that victim had lain undiscovered for nearly two weeks, and the naked young man lying on the floor here has been dead maybe twenty-four hours tops. Malcolm crouches on his heels beside the body. Pooling blood darkens the neutral fibers of the carpet, tacky where it hasn’t dried. On the edge of turning sour, the coppery smell hanging in the air clings to the back of Malcolm’s throat.

“It appears that way.” Malcolm motions towards the stretch of bare, pale limbs. A pattern of blotches stain the victim’s forearms, bruising that indicates he fought back to no avail. “It’s the same deliberate posing of the body—arms extended overhead and crossed at the wrist, right over left. Ignoring the way all the books have been pulled from the shelves and stacked in the same manner around the display of the body, the defensive wounds and angle at which the killer struck appear consistent.”

“Unlike the other body, you can clearly see that it wasn’t a length of rope or a scarf he was choked with before his throat was cut.” Edrisa points with a gloved finger at the marks on the victim’s neck, a dark vertical line of burst blood vessels.

“Maybe a belt?” Dani suggests. “Or the strap of a bag?”

“Could be.” Malcolm’s eyes slide to the pile of clothes stacked as neatly as the books. “Can I?” he asks, reaching towards the jeans at the bottom of the pile. With a nod from Gil as go-ahead, he checks the label. Bit large for someone roughly the same build as himself, so with no sign of a belt, Dani’s probably on the right track. He says as much, adding, “Using the victim’s own belt could be a way of showing contempt.”

“And then he what? Took it with him as a trophy?” Gil pulls aside a tech to tell them to be sure to check the drawers and swab anything they find.

“Or he could have used his own, but trophy collection would fit the profile of a killer who exhibits this sort of ritualistic behavior,” Malcolm says distractedly, skimming the titles of the books to see if there’s a pattern to them other than being stacked largest to smallest. In addition to plenty of contemporary literature, this man gravitated towards military history and memoir while the other victim had far more academic non-fiction on his shelves. Near the bottom of the stack piled near the victim’s left foot one title catches Malcolm’s eye. He remembers the cherry red spine stamped with gold foil and carefully slides the hardcover out of the stack.

“Got something there, Bright?”

“This same book was at the other apartment, only there, it’d been on the bottom of the pile.” It could mean something, like an ominous countdown, or it could just be coincidence. He riffles the pages to reveal a receipt tucked inside—an impromptu bookmark or perhaps never removed when purchased. He holds the pages open without touching the slip of paper, cocking his head to read the bookstore’s name aloud as Edrisa comes over to bag the receipt. “It’s not much of a lead, but it’s something.”

Gil points to JT and Dani. “After you’re done here, you two go back to the first victim’s place and do a second sweep. Malcolm and I will head back to the station.” When the detectives nod in unison, he pulls out his keys and Malcolm follows him outside.

A few lungfuls of fresh, clean air clears the stink of blood from Malcolm’s palate. “I’m not sure how much good it will do. Even with a second body, I don’t have much to go on for a profile.” His breath hangs in the cold and he crams his fingers into the pockets of his coat.

“You want me to drop you somewhere instead? This can wait until we’ve had a chance to conduct a few more interviews.”

Malcolm considers it, but he honestly doesn’t have anywhere else to go that would keep him occupied enough. If he left now, he’d merely spend endless hours wondering how the case was proceeding without him. Also he enjoys spending time around Gil for various reasons. Most of which are even appropriate for a workplace. “No, it’s fine. I just don’t want you to think I can pull miracles out of thin air.”

Gil skewers him with a wry _as-if_ look as they get in the car, and a few blocks later tosses a far less sarcastic glance towards the passenger seat. Laying on the horn when the car ahead of them slows unnecessarily, Gil says, “You know, it’d be nice to go a few months without a new serial killer popping up. It’s like there’s something in the air.” 

Sitting low in the bucket seat, Malcolm murmurs a quiet sound of agreement. He’s tired—when isn’t he tired though, really—and the way this killer operates weighs oddly on him. The perpetrator likes to put his victims on display. He’d built up a shrine around both of them with books, surrounding them with worldly knowledge as if… As if what? Leading them to the other side? Positioning himself as a god-figure feeding them information in order to help them ascend? To become something in his own image perhaps? Malcolm frowns. He needs to know more about the people involved to form a clearer picture in his mind.

“You okay, Bright?” Gil looks over at him, the light filtering between the buildings catching the white of his beard. “You’re being awful quiet over there.”

Malcolm pushes himself up to sit a little straighter and draws in a deep breath to clear his head. It’s a mistake. Upholstery saturated with scents that scream _Gil_ , the assault of leather, faint echoes of musky aftershave, and traces of cigarette smoke from before he quit only heighten the complicated mix of emotions twisting in Malcolm’s guts whenever riding shotgun. Part of him will always be that awkward teen sitting on stakeouts, and part of him— He cracks the window to distract himself from going down that path. “Yeah, sorry, I’m fine. Just thinking about the case.”

“Bit creepy wasn’t it, seeing those two. Well, the first one wasn’t in the best shape but you gotta admit it was a little eerie.” Gil’s brow furrows, concern couched in his voice aimed distinctly at Malcolm. Interesting.

A fresh lick of cool air slips through the window. “What do you mean?”

Gil’s eyebrow wings upward. “You were the one who immediately pointed out they looked alike. I thought you were just keeping quiet about the resemblance because of, well, you know…” His attention snaps back to the road.

“The resemblance?” Malcolm repeats confused, summoning back into his mind the lay of the bodies. He does remember commenting on their relative similarity: both men were in their late twenties or early thirties, shorter than the average white American male, slender, brown hair and blue— _Ah._ “I guess narcissism is a trait I definitely didn’t inherit from my father. I honestly hadn’t put that together.”

Somewhere his therapist must be enjoying the zing of a self-congratulatory tingle running up her spine. How often has she warned him that too often relying upon intellectualizing situations will lead him to the point where he risks ignoring the obvious? He chews thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek. Are there other things he’s missed on this case? He frowns. Or other cases?

“Forget I said anything, kid.”

He can’t of course, just like he can’t help but notice the restless slide of Gil’s hands along the steering wheel. He breaks down the possible causes as he imagines that same touch slid over his skin. To keep his thoughts from wandering deeper into the more lascivious corners of his mind, Malcolm pulls out his phone. “Being disturbed by seeing a body resembling someone you know is completely reasonable.”

Gil doesn’t respond, but the way he cranks down the window to shout at the cab driver who nearly took his mirror off tells Malcolm everything.

  


* * *

  


It’s past noon when JT pops his head into Gil’s office with an update. “Bright’s memory was spot on.” He acknowledges Malcolm—who slouches comfortably in one of the chairs across from Gil’s desk—with a curt nod. “We found the same book in one of the stacks; the only one that matched both scenes.”

Malcolm’s head jerks up, his attention fixing entirely on JT. “Was there a receipt in that one too?”

“No, but we found one in the apartment which included the purchase. Different store, though.”

“Get a list of the employees from both anyway, and find out how popular that book is.”

“Already on it, boss.”

Malcolm looks over questioningly at Gil. “And me? What do you want me to do?” Having reviewed the crime scene photos and combed through all the witness statements, he’s since moved on to searching for potential connections between the victims on social media. So far, nothing jumps out. The most he has to show from all his work is a crude sketch of a profile: an obsessive, driven killer who definitely works alone. Without any other clues, that could apply to half the serial killers operating today.

“I suppose sitting there and staying out of trouble isn’t an option.”

“Ha ha,” Malcolm deadpans. He’s about to suggest he could try loitering around a bookstore or two just for kicks when he notices that the first victim had been a member of a niche dating site and in his profile he mentions the author of the book they’d found at both crime scenes. Malcolm flips his phone around to show it to Gil. “Hey, did anyone pull the messages sent to this guy’s profile?”

“Probably, but I doubt anyone’s really dug into them yet for a good look. Check with Dani and let me know if you find anything worth pursuing.”

“Will do,” Malcolm says, already busy building his own dating profile as he rises to go ask for the files.

  


* * *

  


Within twenty-four hours he has a slew of potential suspects messaging him. In another day’s time he not only has read the book that connects the victims, but narrowed his suspect pool down to two people—one a white male, early forties, and on the list of men that had been in contact with the first victim. 

“So, I may have a lead,” Malcolm says, pushing excitedly into Gil’s office. The message is open on his phone, full of references to a character in the book. A character whose description could easily apply to himself and the two victims.

“Don’t you knock?”

“A lead, Gil,” he repeats, then pauses. He looks up at the ceiling with his phone balanced on his palm. “Okay, so, before I tell you how I found—”

“You made a profile on that nerdy dating site,” Gil guesses without missing a beat. He throws his pen onto the paperwork spread across his desk. “Damn it, Bright, why can’t you—”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Malcolm winces, though it’s mostly a lie. There’s certainly a _part_ of him that’s sorry—a small part taking a backseat to the rest of him that’s ready and eager to catch this guy. “But he’s very interested in meeting me for dinner two hours from now, and if he’s the killer and he’s escalating, this might be our best chance to stop him before he takes out another innocent victim.”

“We’ve got another very solid angle we’re pursuing, which you would’ve known if you hadn’t been off doing your own thing,” Gil tells him, and points at Malcolm to cut off the protest before it leaves his mouth. “But, since I’m guessing by the look on your face that you’ve already said yes to a date with a _potential murderer_ we’ll check out your guy too.” He catches Dani’s attention through the glass and calls her in.

“Boss? What’s up?”

“I need you and JT to handle that stalker.” Gil rises from his desk and grabs his coat, draping it over his arm as he pockets his phone.

“Where are you going?”

“On a date.”

A glance at Malcolm and Dani catches sight of the app open on his phone. She crosses her arms in front of herself, lips pressing into a line. “Bright honey-trapped someone, didn’t he?”

Malcolm rocks forward and gives them both a little wave. “Hello. _Bright_ is standing right here.”

“You sure fitting him with a wire again is a good idea?” Dani’s amusement twists her mouth, a faint quirk that might as well be loud and uproarious laughter. It seems unfair to judge him on his prior performance which really had been less his fault and more the fault of a poorly-fitting earpiece. Or, he supposes, a particularly well-delivered slap that he didn’t entirely look back on with regret. “You remember how that went the last time right, boss?”

“Oh, I remember.”

Malcolm throws up his hands as they continue talking over him. It’s like being in the same room as his mother at a charity function.

“But the clock’s ticking, and if someone else shows up who Malcolm’s not expecting, he is not—I repeat, _not_ —going to move location. We’ve got a killer on the prowl and you think this city is short on pretty boys with light eyes? No offense Malcolm.”

“None… taken?”

Dani rolls a shoulder in a shrug and looks towards the bullpen. Hanging up his desk phone, JT waves at her, a Post-it stuck to his finger like a flag. He switches into a thumbs up. “Looks like we’ve got that warrant. Enjoy your date, Bright.”

“Date?” JT says, coming over. He passes the address to Dani and gives both Gil and Malcolm a once-over. “You know, I probably don’t need to know.”

“C’mon, partner.” Dani claps JT fondly on the arm and leads the way out. “Not our problem this time.”

Malcolm doesn’t entirely enjoy being referred to as a problem, but with the way Gil hides a smile while ushering him out, he knows it’s not meant unkindly. Dani’s grown comfortable enough with him now to tease him like he’s part of the team. And he’s still not entirely sure where he stands with JT, but it’s different than at the Bureau where the snide remarks were distinctly at his expense. It feels more almost like the way Ainsley teases him, as if he’s a step or two away from truly belonging.

  


* * *

  


Gil drives him home to finish getting ready. This time Malcolm refuses to rely on the department issue listening device in favor of something a bit higher tech. Most importantly the earpiece won’t be so easily lost and he won’t have any wires taped to his skin. Not that he’s expecting this date to insist on coming back to his place and ripping his shirt open, but if Malcolm can ensure this operation runs a little more discreetly, he might as well go the extra mile.

“Earwig, mic, button cameras.” He sets each device on the counter in a neat row next to the tablet they’re keyed to. All are smaller than a ladybug, and the one camera already affixed to his shirt cuff literally looks like a button.

Gil picks up one of the cameras on his fingertip. “Looks pricey.”

“This sort of thing is getting cheaper all the time. It’s a little terrifying to be honest, but this is top of the line hardware fitted with stabilizing technology and sound filtering software. You’re looking at what the NSA or your very well-connected and sophisticated criminal prefers to use. Or, so I’ve heard.” Malcolm shakes out his shirt before sliding it on over his shoulders. The bruises he’d suffered at Lazar’s hands have long-since faded from his skin, but he can still feel the strain when he moves in certain ways. He flips his collar up and picks up a tie in each hand, draping the ends over the faint swiss dots of his button-down. “Which one?”

Gil doesn’t hesitate, delivering a decisive,“Go with the grey,” before his gaze drifts towards Malcolm’s hand. “You nervous, Bright?”

“A little,” Malcolm admits. He abandons the dark blue tie and glances at the spread of his hand. It’s steady for the moment. There might be less backup this time, but knowing that it’ll only be Gil listening in to his ‘date’ makes him feel a bit more confident about the situation. He does up a tidy Shelby knot and picks up the extra camera that masquerades as a tie pin. “Technically my last two dates ended on a bit of a sour note. Well, three if you count needing to leave for a case in the middle of lunch and then being ghosted by the guy once I told him I’d been fired.”

Gil flicks his fingers, gesturing for Malcolm to lean forward. Hesitantly, Malcolm obliges, chin lifting and eyes drifting shut as the knot slides up to his throat. A faint shiver travels up his spine in stuttering fits as Gil snugly presses the knot into place, and his throat jumps in a dry swallow at the whisper of Gil’s thumb brushing tenderly over the fabric before Gil fixes the dimple. “You know you don’t have to do this. We can put the suspect under surveillance and do a bit of digging to make sure he’s our killer.”

But it’s not nerves making him tremble. Malcolm takes a step back and draws in a deep breath. He’s always conscious of Gil in his space, and right now he’s hyper aware of distance, from how close they are to one another to how many steps away they are from his bed. He folds his collar back down and neatly tucks the pin into his tie, focusing on that instead of Gil’s dark unwavering gaze. “If he’s not our guy, hey it’s good practice right? And you’ll have eyes on me this time.”

“That’s right, kid; I’ve got your back.”

 _Kid_. It ought to feel infantilizing how often Gil calls him that, but more often than not it leaves heat sizzling low in his guts. He shoves down the thought that immediately wants to follow—a staple of the rare good dreams he has—imagining the feel of Gil’s hand on his face and the freedom to call him Daddy in a distinctly not paternal way. Malcolm clears his throat as he peels the adhesive off the earpiece and secures it to the inside of his tragus. He draws on his suit jacket and spreads a smile that looks a lot more confident than he feels as he does a slow twirl. “How do I look?”

Mouth tilting at the corners, Gil raises his brows as he pushes away from the counter to stand up tall. He gathers the tablet in hand and tips it towards Malcolm. “Like you’re ready to break some hearts.”

“Well then,” Malcolm says, scooping up the extra button cams as he skirts the edge of the island. “I believe we have a date to get to.”

  


* * *

  


With barely any sleight of hand needed, Malcolm deftly sticks a camera to the back of the hostess’s podium at the entrance to the restaurant. He hides a second near the kitchen under the pretense of going to the restroom. They’d tested the mic in the car, and it sits secured discreetly beneath the point of his collar. “All good?” he asks beneath his breath as he returns to his seat. He rests his left wrist on the table so that with the cuff and tie cams, Gil has four steady views of the place.

 _“Got you loud and clear, Bright. Everything’s working perfectly and that last camera is a direct look at the seat across from you,”_ Gil assures him, voice pouring directly into his ear. _“You did good. Now relax and eat some bread.”_

One, that would be rude, and two, Malcolm’s rarely hungry at the best of times, let alone sitting here with anticipation resting like a knifepoint at his belly. Still, he remains far more calm as he stays on the lookout for his ‘date,’ Thomas, than when he’d been waiting for Jasper Saint-George. Worrying about how he was going to angle for information about a secret sex club when he’d already been overthinking sex—or the lack thereof in his personal life—was world’s apart from being bait on the hook. The latter leaves him alive and alert, and probably isn’t a great thing to admit, even to himself.

 _Now_ he fidgets.

 _“Take a breath; this whole situation is different,”_ Gil says, misreading his unease. _“I’m right outside and you’re not going anywhere I can’t keep an eye on you.”_

“I’m not—” Malcolm starts, but he can’t exactly explain the sudden rush of discomfort at his own psyche. Or the way his belly tightens at Gil’s reassurance purring into his ear. He grabs his water glass and counts slowly up to ten.

_“Could be your man coming in through the front. Scarf, charcoal sweater, and slacks.”_

“Do you really have to use the phrase _your man?”_ Malcolm murmurs into his glass. It’s a valid way to refer to a suspect he’s pursuing, he supposes, even if it carries distinct connotations in this situation.

_“I didn’t arrange the date, kid.”_

Fair enough. And if he weren’t a potential killer, Thomas wouldn’t be outside Malcolm’s type. Not that he _has_ a singular type, per se. Sure, he harbors a few distinct preferences, and they’re presently approaching him with a well-trimmed beard shot through with grey and an outstretched hand. Shit. Maybe he does have more of a type than he’s willing to admit, because he definitely responds favorably to the guy’s confident stride. “Malcolm, I presume? Thomas. I apologize for running a few minutes late.”

Malcolm rises to clasp his hand and gesture at the seat across from him, waiting until Thomas takes it before lowering himself back into his chair. “Good thing I don’t care as much about punctuality as my mother does.” As soon as he says it, he winces inwardly. Bringing up his mother first thing on a date? Awkward, and bad op sec. He shouldn’t be offering up anything resembling personal information to someone who might be a murderer. Maybe Dani had been right.

“Usually no one shows up to office hours, but of course, the one time…” Thomas breaks into a slightly stilted laugh. “I’m just relieved I didn’t have to spend the extra time to go home and change. Although I do feel a little underdressed as a result. I didn’t expect you to agree to see me so quickly.”

“You look great.” Malcolm smiles and shrugs as he pounces on the tidbit of info. "So, I take it you’re a professor?” Thomas’s occupation had been something he couldn’t easily glean from the guy’s dating profile. In fact, it had been suspiciously free of details, though he’d waxed lyrical in his messages in a fairly pretentious and overbearing way, which probably means— “Let me guess… Contemporary American Literature?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, we did click over a mutual love of the written word.” Malcolm tracks Thomas’s wandering gaze and the way he fingers the shining silver knife laid alongside the bread plate. Malcolm takes up his own knife and scoops a bit of butter up to leave at the edge of his plate before offering the bread first to Thomas. “You know, I considered majoring in English.”

“Why didn’t you?” Thomas takes a slice and butters the whole of it directly. So, he’s not accustomed to fine dining or simply doesn’t care to follow etiquette. Malcolm notes the way he holds the knife—not like a scalpel, as his father might, but with a firm grip, the sort that wouldn’t slip if it cut too deep and hit bone instead of tissue. “I know they say people regret getting English degrees, however books are my _life_. I feel lonely without a stack of at least three novels by my bedside and always have.”

Malcolm’s fingers tighten on his own knife. He smiles.

_”Cool it, Bright, just keep him talking. Things are moving along and that’s not enough to go on.”_

“Well, I prefer to read purely for pleasure and put my analytical skills to other use.”

“Finance? Law? Financial Law? I’m clearly not as good at this as you are.” Thomas wipes his fingers off on his napkin and leans forward intently. His gaze seizes Malcolm’s. “Tell me more about what you do.”

With that they fall into the sort of superficial conversation that Malcolm has never been fond of. He bases all his lies on what he knows about his sister’s boyfriend—or rather, ex-boyfriend, he reminds himself—and with a few quietly encouraging words from Gil, circles back around to talking about the novel they’d found at both crime scenes.

At the mention of the book, Thomas’s pupils shift, and when Malcolm presses the subject his stress indicators go off the charts: his fingers dampen and leave smudges on his wine glass and he plucks at his collar as his eyes hop to the side exit near the kitchen.

Malcolm twists to clearly demonstrate to Thomas that he’d noticed. “Have somewhere else you need to be? We’re not even to the main course.” His belly tightens as a flood of adrenaline courses through his veins. He can practically smell Thomas’s sweat as the man’s body temperature rises. “Look, I know this was a bit… unexpected and _very_ last minute. Is now a bad time? I’d hate to keep you if there’s something more important you need to take care of. I know how unfinished business can be distracting.”

_“Malcolm.”_

Thomas’s eyes snap back to Malcolm before jumping down to the hollow of his throat—a potential indicator that he’s thinking of strangulation. “No, it’s noth—” Thomas cuts himself off. “Now’s fine. Sorry if I’m acting odd. It’s just that on my last date I might have gone on a little rant about underappreciated themes of metaphysics and allegory in current fiction and to be honest, you look a little bit like him.”

“Well, I’ve been told I also resemble Sebastian Vane, with the eyes and the trust fund,” Malcolm says breezily, naming the character to see how Thomas reacts.

Viscerally, it turns out. The man’s entire posture changes, his breathing pattern shifts.

_“Bright, can you hear me?”_

He can hear Gil just fine, but he’s got Thomas right where he wants him. It’s Malcolm’s turn to lean forward intently, his smile sharpening. Thomas’s posture screams vulnerability, his metaphorical throat bared, underbelly exposed. A little more and he’ll crack. “Does that make you feel a certain way, Thomas?” he asks, and presses his tongue against the back of his teeth. He catches Thomas’s wrist and holds it ruthlessly, the man’s pulse a trapped bird fluttering wildly under his grasp. “Is there something you want to do to me?”

The sound Thomas makes isn’t the one he’s expecting. It’s not a surge of predatory viciousness to meet his own. Nor is it the clatter of silverware as the knife in Thomas’s hand sweeps up like a threat to the hollow of Malcolm’s throat, hungering to cut a smile into his neck like the two victims. It’s a weak moan followed by Thomas’s hand jerking upwards and knocking over his wine glass.

 _“Malcolm. For fuck’s sake, he’s not our guy,”_ Gil says in a rush. Malcolm spots Gil’s silhouette waving at him through the window near the front door.

“Shit. What?” Malcolm sits back, not to avoid the spreading Cab Franc dripping towards him like a pool of blood, but to process exactly what Gil’s just told him.

_“He’s not our guy. JT and Dani just took a suspect into custody.”_

“This is embarrassing. I’m so sorry,” Thomas babbles, trying to ineffectually contain the spill with his napkin.

_“Before you ask, I’m positive. Author had a stalker, victims were critical of her latest work at book signings, and they interrupted the guy prepping another scene while wearing the murder weapon. The resemblance is a coincidence and that man you’re with, Thomas, he’s just on a date.”_

“I um—” Malcolm screws his eyes shut and then opens them to stare down at his hand. He clenches it into stillness. It’s not that he’d been so sure, it’s the hard thump of his heart still racing with vicious, bloodthirsty intent. He flashes a polite smile. “Can you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.”

Thomas apologizes again, and as a server rushes over to take care of the table, Malcolm slips past to head for the bathroom. His blood sings, a rush like the first sting of a whip flooding through him. “Oh my god, Gil,” Malcolm hisses, locking the door and pacing in a tight circle, all the wild energy bleeding out of him at once. He stops and stares at himself wide-eyed in the mirror. “I fucked up, didn’t I.”

_“It was a good guess, kid, just not the right one.”_

Malcolm drops his hands after running them through his hair. “That poor man thinks we’re on a date. What do I do?” He shoots the mirror a flat look as Gil’s startled laugh rings through the earpiece. He grips the edge of the sink and rolls his eyes. “I’m serious, Gil. Should I tell him the truth?”

 _“Seems to me you’ve got two options: Go finish your date and have a good time—I mean, I’ve been out of the dating game for a while, and he’s uh, a little older than you, but the guy seems nice enough and he definitely wants to_ ‘have the dessert course,’ _so to speak. Other option is you thank him, pay the bill, and say you’re not so sure this is gonna work out. Either way, skip the bit about thinking he might be a serial killer.”_

“What are you going to do? You’re not going to leave me here, are you?” The idea of picking things up and seeing where it goes—even if Thomas thinks he works for American Direct News—isn’t exactly off-putting. Leaving aside that he’d been interrogating the guy, he’s smart, handsome, and a bit pretentious but not bad at conversation. Then there’s the other harsh truth Malcolm doesn’t fully want to acknowlege: that being both the hunter and the bait has its erotic appeal and he’s a little primed right now if the opportunity were to present itself. Malcolm pulls a thoughtful face, and then another more sheepish expression when he remembers the camera broadcasting from his tie pin. “I mean, if I go finish this thing.”

_“You want me to back you up through an actual date, Bright?”_

“It is a little unfair to Thomas out there I suppose, but I could use the practice. You _are_ always telling me that I should try and have fun.” Malcolm washes his hands and pats them dry. “Just stay with me another half hour. Please?”

_“When I say you should have fun, I mean a hobby, kid, not whatever the fuck Cyrano de Bergarac bullshit this is.”_

“If I say anything weird, just stop me. Gil, that’s all I’m asking.”

There’s a pause, then the soft huff of Gil’s breath. _“Fine, but if you decide you’re going home with this guy, I’m not sticking around to walk you through_ that.”

“I’m sure you have plenty of wisdom to impart in the bedroom, but that’s a little kinky, even for me.” Unethical too, which Malcolm realizes he has far more qualms about than he does in the line of duty. There’s something else for him to explore in therapy aside from the missing gaps in his memory.

_“How about we keep this professional and you keep your kinks to yourself, Bright.”_

Malcolm’s gaze flicks briefly back up to the mirror and he wets his lips, teeth scraping them clean immediately after. There’s tension in Gil’s tone, faint but recognizable. And Malcolm’s once again left wondering, just a touch, if maybe Gil’s thought about _not_ keeping it professional between them. It’s unusual, sure. With their background and the age at which he met Gil, there are… issues. But after going off to Harvard and then Quantico—a lot of time has passed since he was a little boy in Gil’s eyes, no matter how often Gil calls him kid.

When he returns to the table, Thomas is visibly relieved that he hadn’t taken the opportunity to duck and run. “Sorry, it’s an expensive suit. I wanted to make sure nothing would stain,” Malcolm says, easing back into his seat. He takes up the fresh napkin and lays it across his lap. “Now where were we?”

“Airing my unfortunate habit of turning people off by arguing passionately about literary themes.” 

Malcolm holds up a hand. “No, wait. Let’s start over. Thomas, I’m sorry but I lied about my background. I don’t work for ADN, I’m actually in law enforcement, but most people don’t like to hear that.” Thomas gives him a startled but not entirely negative reaction, so he continues with a little wave of the hand. “Although I do enjoy reading and I am in possession of a fairly sizable trust fund and the overbearing mother to go with it. That was unfortunately the truth.”

After a beat, Thomas says, “Well I don’t get along with my mother either and it seems your trust fund pays for very nice suits.” He cracks a nervous smile. “Can’t be all bad.”

“It does allow me to keep a pretty sizable apartment with a lot of room for my antique weapon collection.”

_“Getting weird, Bright.”_

“Good to meet you again, Malcolm.” Thomas picks up the fresh glass of wine that had been replaced while Malcolm was absent and toasts with it. “Antique weapons, huh? What’s a man without a hobby?”

From there it goes well. There’s still a sizzle, but it’s banked now—not the copper-sharp thrill of trying to catch a murderer, but a low buzz of building interest Malcolm enjoys. And then in the middle of the dessert course Thomas lets it spill that in addition to reading he’s a fan of true crime podcasts, chiefly _Killers & Coffee_—a podcast Malcolm knows by virtue of Ainsley delightedly telling him the host has been focusing on the Surgeon after the copycat. Apparently they’re going wild over her interview. And they’ve mentioned him a few times.

_“Bright, he’s a murder groupie. Cut him off and say you want to talk about something else.”_

But the cold chill rushing through Malcolm interrupts his ability to think clearly. He goes tense, and reflexively slips his hand under the table to hide its shaking. He manages a bland, “Oh?”

 _“Malcolm, listen to me: he doesn’t know that the Surgeon is your father, but if you don’t stop him talking, he’s going to notice that something is wrong,”_ Gil’s voice is calm and rational and Malcolm _wants_ to take his advice, but the ability to make words form seems to have abandoned him. Blindsided with few walls up at all, it’s difficult enough to keep breathing soft and slow and steady through his mouth.

“I am absolutely obsessed with this podcast. Do you know, I was in college when they arrested Martin Whitly? My entire dorm was glued to the news and now his own daughter is interviewing him? I haven’t actually watched it yet, but I hear he snaps and shouts about how he’d been a good father. It’s absolutely crazy. Actually, did you know his son is named Malcolm? He was in the FBI… in law enforcement just like you. You’re probably not much younger than him. Can you imagine—”

“Can I imagine…” Malcolm’s mouth moves, but someone else is speaking with the air in his lungs. His vision narrows to a pinpoint, his heart slamming against his ribs. Dimly, he hears a stir towards the front of the restaurant and then there’s a figure standing beside him laying a hand on his shoulder.

“Excuse me?” Thomas glances up.

“So this is where I find you,” Gil says, hooking a hand under Malcolm’s arm. Malcolm goes with it unthinkingly, letting himself be steered outside and onto the sidewalk. The minute they’re outside the cold air hits him like a slap across the face. He blinks and swallows a deep, steadying breath that makes his lungs ache.

Thomas follows them, bursting out of the door and catching Malcolm by the sleeve. “Hey! Malcolm! What’s going on?” He tosses a challenging look at Gil. “Who the hell are you?”

Malcolm’s look of sheer panic must be bordering on catastrophic because Gil shifts in front of him to shield him from Thomas. “Whoever you are this is none of your business. Did he tell you he was a journalist? Or a makeup artist? Or was it a cop again?” Gil lifts his hand and Thomas retreats back a half step but Gil’s not threatening to hit him, he’s flashing his ring. Gil turns back to Malcolm, catching up his hands to help mask the trembling. “Where’s yours? Take it off again? You think Daddy goes to work every day so you can wine and dine strangers and pretend it wasn’t your idea to get married and have kids?”

“Sorry,” Malcolm mumbles. Gil’s tone might be harsh, but his eyes are warm and worried and Malcolm holds to his gaze like a lifeline.

“You’re always sorry and I’m stupid enough to always forgive you.”

Thomas backs away, shoes scuffling on the pavement before he turns to go back inside—aiming to handle the bill maybe instead of getting in the middle of a messy marital spat. Without a second glance, Gil hustles Malcolm down the block and around the corner into the alleyway where he’s left his car. The instant they’re out of sight, he braces both of his hands on Malcolm’s shoulders and leans down to look him in the eye. “That damn podcast. Are you all right?”

Coming back to himself fully, Malcolm nods yes. “I wasn’t expecting anything like that. Thanks for the rescue.”

“Guess it was a good thing you asked me to stay.” Gil rubs Malcolm’s arms for a moment, then slips out of his coat to drape it around Malcolm’s shoulders. “You’ll have to go back for yours later. In the meantime, take mine.”

“I’m sure they’ll hold it for me,” Malcolm murmurs, sinking into the body-warmed heat of Gil’s coat. He’s growing steadier by the second, his hand hardly trembling. He continues cycling his breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. “It was going okay before that though, wasn’t it? The date.”

Gil’s hand clasps to the column of his neck and Malcolm leans instinctively into the touch as Gil smiles faintly. “You were doing great, kid. He doesn’t know what he’s missed out on.”

Maybe it’s the sensation of being bundled in Gil’s coat, or maybe it’s the adrenaline in his system, but Malcolm feels a charge in the air. He glances up at Gil and every nerve in his body crackles like he’s the bait again in a very different game of cat and mouse. “You really mean that,” he says softly, brows pulling tight as he arrows in on the sincerity of Gil’s delivery. He starts to turn his face towards the press of Gil’s palm.

“Of course I do,” Gil mutters, retrieving his hand, but being brusque about it now can’t undo how tenderly he’d spoken.

The chill leaves Malcolm entirely, replaced by a wave of giddy warmth and a noticeable touch of arousal. He slips his arms into Gil’s coat and clutches it closed around him, delighting in the feel of it. The echo of where Gil had clasped his neck lingers like an invisible handprint on his skin. “So what _does_ Daddy go to work for?” he asks curiously, suddenly wildly amused when Gil resumes shepherding him to the car.

“You’d rather I played it straight and just flashed my badge to pull you out of there?” Gil asks, his hand light on Malcolm’s shoulder.

“No, of course not, but I’m genuinely curious about your chosen cover’s backstory.”

Inside the car, before he’s even finished buckling his seatbelt, Malcolm twists to skewer Gil with an eager expression. Kicked back into high gear, he tracks the strain tightening the corner of Gil’s mouth as he fires off questions: “Am I a sugar baby? The answer to a midlife crisis? Do you imagine I just have a thing for older men?”

Aha. A faint twitch shows in Gil’s jaw and a new tension rides his leg as he switches off the gas. So that hit a little too close to the truth. Malcolm’s eyes narrow briefly. He has so many questions now, not only about the cover story but what Gil thinks about the date he’d just been on. Precisely what would Gil have thought if things hadn’t gone off the rails and he took Thomas home for ‘dessert.’

“Ooh, but you said we had kids. What age is our child. … Or is it children? How many kids did Daddy want?”

“Bright, I’m going to ask you to shut up now.”

He’s overdone it. The awkward tension at the edges of Gil’s mouth turns sour, and as Malcolm sinks back into the bucket seat he sits with the regret of bringing up the subject of children. Of course that would be a genuinely sore spot; Jackie had probably wanted babies of her own and instead she’d gotten him dumped into their life, a not-quite orphan who remains irreparably broken twenty years later.

The rest of the ride happens in silence.


	2. Chapter 2

When Gil flicks on his hazards to idle in front of his place, Malcolm attempts an apology. He reluctantly shrugs out of Gil’s coat and leaves it on the seat as he gets out of the car. “I, um, I’m sorry about making jokes when I could see you were uncomfortable.” Once standing, he turns to hang on the open door to pass Gil an earnest look that he hopes conveys enough contrition to smooth things over.

Gil leans toward the passenger side and his expression softens. Malcolm’s stomach does a slow roll. “I know.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“I know that, too.”

“Of course you do.” Malcolm spreads a faint smile. He pats the roof of the car. “Have a good night, Gil.”

“You too, kid.”

He closes the door and then before he can think twice about it, he immediately yanks it open again. “Hey, you don’t want to come up for a bit, do you?”

“Come up for a bit?” Gil asks warily. 

“I could offer you a nightcap,” Malcolm suggests. But it doesn’t escape him that Gil can’t keep his eyes from tracing the shape of the words on his mouth. His fingers quiver with a different sort of anxiousness as he wets his lip and adds, “Or, because tonight has been a wild rollercoaster of emotion and if I don’t go for it now I’m going to regret it: I… just want to say that I do have a thing for older men and if you’re interested I would _definitely_ have sex with you. I am _so_ worked up right now, you have no idea.”

Gil gives him a tight smile that Malcolm can’t quite say isn’t steeped in pity. “I’m gonna have to say no, Bright.”

“Okay. All right. Not the answer I was hoping for, but it’s the one I was expecting. Pretend I never said anything and I will—” Malcolm takes a step up onto the curb and gives him a curt little wave. “—see you for the next case, I guess. I hope.” Closing the door a second time, he flees to his apartment.

He fumbles his keys twice at the outer door, but he makes it upstairs and inside, and then he’s flinging the contents of his pockets into the dish and pinching the bridge of his nose. Fuck. Of all the stupid things that had fallen out of his mouth today. He paces to the fridge and back for no other reason than he can’t stay still.

“Sunshine, I’m an idiot.” He rounds on her sitting peacefully in her cage. “I just hit on Gil. Oh God, I just fucking _hit on Gil_.”

She lifts her wings a bit.

“I know, right? What was I thinking? But imagine if he’d said yes.” Malcolm bites his lip and tips his head back to release a frustrated groan that slips towards a whine. He skids a hand down his front and shudders. “God, I am dying to get fucked right now.”

Sunshine shifts on her perch and starts preening.

“And, you’re a bird who doesn’t care that I’m sexually frustrated and super into my boss-slash-sort-of-surrogate-father-figure. You know, that sounds really awful when I say it out loud. My therapist is going to _love_ our next session.”

Sighing, he strips off his tie and goes to kick off his shoes and socks and air out his suit. If he could remove the whole day and be done with it, that’d be great. He undoes the buttons of his shirt as he pads to the bathroom to get rid of the taste of wine growing stale on his tongue. There’s a tightness in his chest and a restlessness skittering under his skin, and as he brushes his teeth he knows it’s not going to go away anytime soon when just the feel of something in his mouth makes him hard.

Maybe he can call someone. After what happened earlier, a hookup app is far from his first choice. He doesn’t exactly have a list of regular booty calls saved in his contacts, but he does keep a roster of several professional doms. Vanilla sex might not be their forte, but if any of them have a referral or two they’d be willing to pass on he’ll be cooking with gas, and he’s always been a great client.

He spits and rinses and stares at himself in the mirror for a long minute before making up his mind. The idea of going to bed alone is so overwhelmingly unappealing that he can see it on his own face underneath the ever-present tiredness. If he tries to sleep now, it’s going to be a bad night. He needs to feel a body against his, warm and full of life, someone who he can be sure will see him strapped in after the sex so he doesn’t end up hurting himself—or anyone else. The first number he tries goes to voicemail and he paces back and forth as he dials the second.

On the fifth ring, just before he’s about to cancel the call, it picks up. “Malcolm?”

Abruptly, he stops his pacing and lifts it back to his ear. “Hi, yeah. Hello. It is me, Malcolm Bright.”

“Sweetheart, it’s been a while. Looking for a bit of fun? I’ve been working on a new set of designs that’ll look gorgeous on you.”

“You know I think you’re a virtuoso with needles Charlotte, but I’m actually looking for a recommendation. Agency or freelance. Top energy of course, same as you, but I’m more interested in getting dicked than dominated right now.”

“Baby, tops are scarce everywhere.”

“I know, and I have men at least ten years older than me on my mind, preferably tall and fit versus a bear, but you know me, I’m not set on anything.”

“Gorgeous boy like you? I can’t believe you’d have a hard time pulling a man like that in the city if you went out on the prowl.”

Malcolm swallows, pushing aside the memory of that ugly thrill that had shot through him when he’d thought he had a killer ready to cave. “Nice of you to say, but I already had to deal with one miss tonight—well, two sort of—so I’d rather not take my chances. I need someone who I can trust at the end of the night. The last time I had sex, I fell asleep on the floor uncuffed and it wasn’t pretty.”

“Hmm… I’ll text you some numbers. Most of them do porn, so you’d better be prepared for some thick ones, honey. Oh, actually I know a couple butches that might do the trick too. Can’t say any of these folks are free, but you let them know I’ll vouch if they need convincing.”

“Thank you _so_ much, Charlotte. I owe you one,” Malcolm says, relieved. He gives Sunshine a little thumbs up before sliding onto a stool in the kitchen with his phone cradled between his hands to wait.

In a few heartbeats nearly a half dozen contacts hit his messages in a buzzing cascade. He skims the list, although with nothing besides names to go on, and likely a bunch of them pseudonymous, it’s all a crapshoot. Photos would be nice, but if they’re mostly porn stars they’re all likely to have a similar look. And maybe it’s better this way so he can’t make decisions based on who reminds him the most of Gil. That can’t be healthy. Before he hits the button to call the first person on the list, sound rushes directly into his ear.

_“Jesus fucking Christ, Bright, you are not calling a sex worker.”_

His grip goes tight on his phone as his eyes slide shut in horrified realization. He chokes on the sudden knot in his throat, his mouth drying out. “I, uh— Hi, Gil. The mic is still transmitting, I take it… and I didn’t remove this earpiece.”

_“You did not.”_

“How much of that did you hear exactly?”

_“Enough that I pulled over thinking I’d need to arrest you for solicitation.”_

“Funny.” Malcolm sets his phone face down so he can’t see the list of names. He wraps his arms around himself and winces. This is definitely one hundred percent not how he wanted to end this night. “Is it possible for someone to die on the spot of complete and utter humiliation?”

_“You tell me. You’re the behavioral expert.”_

“Once again, allow me to apologize. I am very sorry for objectifying you. Now I am going to take off this earpiece and the mic and flush them both—and possibly myself—down the toilet. Please tell me that you can forget everything that you’ve heard and just pretend that I’m not going to do that thing you don’t want me to do.”

Malcolm jumps out of his skin at the sound of the door buzzer.

_“Not likely. Open up.”_

“Gil, look. I really don’t want to talk about this right now.” Malcolm taps his fingers anxiously beside his phone. Gil might prefer to play by the rules, but not so much that he’d actually charge Malcolm with solicitation. Or, at least, he hopes Gil wouldn’t do that. He’s never known him to be anti-sex work the way that some cops are. As if being fired from the FBI wasn’t enough of a black mark.

_“Tough shit.”_

The buzzer sounds again and Malcolm buries his face in his hands. His fingers shake and he wishes that he could just redo this entire night from start to finish. He slides off the stool and heads towards his wardrobe. “At least let me put some pants on.”

A pause. A sudden hard rush of breath that sounds like wind through the earpiece. _“You do that, kid, and I’m just going to have to go through the trouble of taking them right off again.”_

Malcolm stumbles on the step near his bed, not entirely sure he’s heard that right. His pulse kicks up another notch, echoing in his skull. Between one breath and the next the possibility hits him that he might not have really heard anything at all. Is he dreaming? He checks his tragus and the earpiece scrapes against the pad of his finger, but all of this might be a wild hallucination. He massages his hand—the grind of bones under his thumb as least feels real—and tries to suppress the trembling seeking to spread up his arm and into the core of him.

“Gil, are you really there?” Worried, he checks the view out the window and doesn’t see the Pontiac’s sleek black silhouette. A razor edge of fear scrapes up his spine. “Is this real?”

_“It’s real, Bright. I’m standing outside your place. You remember you gave me a spare key? I could let myself in if you’re okay with that.”_

Lowering himself gingerly to the edge of the bed, Malcolm clasps his hands tightly between his thighs. It has to be real. It has to. His fingers twist together as he tentatively tells Gil that yes, that’s all right. He prays this isn’t a dream as he stares intently towards the door, fearing that the sound of footsteps won’t be Gil’s gait, but something worse. Something borne of his night terrors. That the key in the lock will be followed by the clang of a prison door hinging open and the slither of a tether across concrete. His heart threatens to crack straight through his ribs, shatter bone and spill red down the center of his chest.

When the door eases open, he stops breathing.

“Bright?” Gil says, and now that they’re in proximity, the earwig doesn’t bother to echo the sound into his ear. Gil shuts the door as he slips the tablet with all the surveillance software onto the kitchen island. He looks towards the bed and all the dread drains out of Malcolm at once.

“You’re really here. This is happening,” he says quietly, weak-limbed with relief and unable for a moment to move. Slowly he manages to rise back to his feet as a different chemical rush floods through his body; just when he thought the night couldn’t possibly be more of a rollercoaster… 

Hastily, he finds the device in his ear and peels it away from his skin to drop it at his bedside. Still, just because he isn’t—probably isn’t—hallucinating Gil standing in his loft it doesn’t mean his brain didn’t make up parts of the conversation. “You’ve, um, changed your mind about that nightcap?”

Gil takes his wallet out of his pocket and sets it down slowly and deliberately beside his keys. He mutters, “I’m definitely going to need a drink at some point,” under his breath, then with some effort, says more clearly: “You really want this that bad, Bright? You want to have sex with me, even though I’m your, err, boss.”

Briefly, Malcolm looks away, trying to swallow down the knot still lodged in his throat. He forces himself to turn back and look Gil in the eye. He needs to read Gil’s reaction. To see if he can tell why Gil turned around and came back for him. Because if this is some kind of warped pity fuck… God, he’d still want it, but it might ruin him. “Is it that wrong?”

Gil’s brows knit together, as an explosive, “I don’t know, kid,” bursts into the air between them. He flings his hands out in an agitated gesture that’s a hair away from something bordering on anger. Like he’s wrestling with a whole lot of similar doubts kicking around in his head and can’t stop fighting with himself over them. He barks a laugh and breaks into a chagrined smile. “I have no fucking idea. I don’t— I can’t—”

Malcolm’s training kicks in, overtaking the messy jumble of emotion stirred up in his guts. He holds out a hand and smiles softly as he picks up where Gil left off. “You can’t reconcile our past and that’s difficult for you. It’s difficult for me too!” He brings that hand back to press against his chest—over his heart—where his skin peeks out bare between the open hang of his shirt. He steps off the raised platform of his bedroom and slowly crosses towards Gil as he goes on, motioning between them. “Do you think it’s easy for me to face the fact that the reasons I’m attracted to you probably have a whole lot more to do with my real father than I’d like them to?

“Especially when you’re such an amazing person in your own right. You’re insightful and kind, dedicated to your job and to the people you care about, and objectively speaking—” Malcolm rakes his gaze over Gil. “—you’re also _extremely_ attractive.”

“Stop profiling me, Bright.” There’s less edgy tension in Gil now though, replaced by that crackle of piqued interest that Malcolm had sensed near the car. Gil’s not egotistical but he hasn’t exactly been on the market, so it must be nice to hear so clearly that he’s desirable.

Malcolm drops his hand and takes a moment to compose himself and suppress the hot quiver taking over his belly. “Sorry, I can’t always turn it off. I obviously have a very different point of view, but I know it must be difficult as a mentor to feel like having sex with me is anything but a breach of trust.” His toes flex against the wood beneath him to further ground himself in the reality that surrounds him. He bites his lip, not necessarily trying to force the situation, but hopeful as he deliberately casts his lashes low and quirks a smile. “But I’m glad you’re here. And if you think you’ll be able to look me in the eye after, then please, Gil. I want this so badly. I really do.”

“Fucking hell, kid. If your mother ever found out.”

“Is that a yes? That’s a yes,” Malcolm determines, because Gil isn’t turning away, and the twitch of his fingers hint that he yearns to reach towards Malcolm.

Malcolm’s gaze slowly lifts back to meet Gil’s in case there’s any hint of disagreement or disapproval. When there’s only conflicted hunger, Malcolm remains in place a few feet away, just out of arm’s reach— _bait in the trap_ —and basks in the sizzling heat aimed his way. Allows it to burn away the last of the fear clinging to him like cobwebs. “Good, because your hands on my body is _everything_ that I want right now. Well, not everything but, if you heard, then you know.”

For a moment it seems like he might need to make the first move. That Gil won’t step over the invisible boundary drawn between them without a push to help him along.

But then Gil resumes emptying his pockets. He sets his phone down and unclips his badge. “Older, tall, fit, and top energy, huh?” he parrots back Malcolm’s wishlist. He thumbs the brass of his badge before he tosses it to the counter with the rest. His holster and gun swiftly join the pile. “You’re sure I fit the bill.”

“Please,” Malcolm scoffs and rolls his eyes. “Your cover story had it right. You have Daddy written all over you.”

“So is that what you’re looking for, Bright?” Gil advances on him. “You were going to call some stranger up to fuck you and ask that they let you call ‘em Daddy?”

“That was the general idea,” Malcolm breathes, and doesn’t even try to hide the excited shiver that runs through his entire body when Gil puts a hand to his face and tips his chin up.

“The idea of some random porn star or that murder groupie jerkoff putting his hands on you when—“

“When what I really want is you?”

The muscles in Gil’s jaw jump. His thumb strokes lightly at the point of Malcolm’s chin and he looks _ravenous_ , like all of this has been sitting under his skin for weeks. Months maybe. “You know, I’m honestly not sure you ever really know what you want, kid. But tonight? I think you said something about being dicked not dominated.”

Malcolm’s eyes widen. “Are you— Are you up for both? God, I would love you to thoroughly top me, but I’m too keyed up, I can’t.” Dealing with the drop sounds overwhelming, but the idea of subbing for Gil isn’t something he’s ever really given any thought to, and just the possibility—

“Hey, slow it down. Let’s keep it simple, all right?”

“Okay. Yes. Fuck, Gil, I am so turned on right now,” he admits, each breath refusing to bring enough air into his lungs. The whole of him feels electric, every inch of his skin tingling.

“Doesn’t take a genius profiler to know that.” Gil casts a quick glance down, nudging his thigh where Malcolm’s hard and tenting the front of his shorts. He dips his head and Malcolm twitches when he feels the soft brush of whiskers at the corner of his mouth. “Does it, kid…”

Malcolm straight up whimpers. He puts his hands to Gil’s front, heels of his palms skidding over the softness of his sweater, and turns his mouth towards Gil’s. “I suppose it doesn’t,” he whispers, rewarded by the hand at his chin spreading to cup his face.

He hangs from the light touch of fingertips cradling his jaw, eager hands slipping under the hem of Gil’s sweater. The skin beneath his palms feels molten, either from the chill of his hands or the sheer novelty of touching Gil lighting his nerves on fire. He can hardly keep still, lust rippling through him in waves. The brush of Gil’s mouth over his begins softly, not with hesitation but as a slow and searching nudge that asks Malcom to open to him. And Malcolm does, happily, a low moan from pouring out of him when the wet swipe of Gil’s tongue licks over his lip and dips into his mouth.

“Please,” he murmurs, gripping Gil’s sides and arching into the kiss. He’s not entirely sure what he’s even asking for but offers up the entirety of himself regardless. He’d let Gil do anything in this moment and his hands move restlessly— _greedily_ —up and across the broad span of Gil’s back as he presses the whole of his body against the man.

“Please what?”

“Please… Daddy?” Speaking it aloud makes his belly go tight and tingling.

Gil huffs a quiet laugh against Malcolm’s mouth. His broad hands skim down Malcolm’s sides and settle just above his hips near the waist of his shorts. “I’ll take it, but I meant: What do you want? You’re begging for something.”

“I want your cock, Gil. I fucking want you inside me. Bareback if you’re open to that. I just need to get fucked.”

His whole body goes tense with delicious anticipation, already imagining the feel of Gil’s cock spearing into him. And when Gil’s hands move around him and down to take handfuls of his ass, he slings his arms over Gil’s shoulders. He’s grinning, manic and elated. It’s perfect, the feel of Gil’s body, solid like a wall and oh, pressing close he can feel Gil getting hard, too.

What he doesn’t anticipate is Gil bending down, grip skidding to nudge at the crease of his thighs, body language giving him the signal for him to let Gil hoist him up. Gil might not be built like JT, but it shouldn’t be a surprise that it’s no work for him to lift Malcolm up. He might have been off the beat for years, but he still hits the gym several times a week. 

And yet, Malcolm’s throat goes dry as his thighs squeeze at Gil’s sides and he’s hefted up and held there. He hooks his ankles together behind Gil and licks at the point of a tooth. “I will be so pissed if I wake up now.” It’s real though, he knows. It’s been too good for too long to be anything else. He nuzzles his face above Gil’s collar and mouths a kiss there. “So pissed. Watch the step,” he says absently, focusing primarily on the salt taste of Gil’s skin and sucking a path up the line of his jaw towards his ear.

“Noted.” Gil navigates the steps easily, hands flexing at Malcolm’s ass as he tips his head to allow for more kisses along his neck. After a moment, he gives a warning bounce, letting Malcolm hang off him to kiss him on the mouth again before dumping him on the bed. Breathless and grinning, Malcolm wriggles out of his shirt. Does Gil manhandling him like this mean he likes things a little rough?

He tosses the shirt somewhere to the floor before shucking his shorts and shifting to sit on his heels. He’s so hard his dick practically points to the ceiling. Malcolm cups a hand over himself and thumbs lightly at where he’s flushed dark as a bruise and aching to burst. “Do you like being on top? Or do you like to be ridden? Personally, I like it both ways,” he says, and rolls his eyes upwards as he considers whether or not to address the connotation of that statement. He opts to let it hang in the air. “Honestly, if I’m bottoming I really don’t care about position that much, obviously some provide a bit more stimulation, but I don’t know how much experience you’ve had with men.”

“Enough,” Gil says, and Malcolm can’t quite tell if he means enough experience or enough talking.

“Okay, great. Well, with you, I’d rather not be face down for reasons that are probably obvious.”

Instead of responding, Gil strips off his sweater and starts on the buttons of his shirt. When Malcolm tries to give him a hand with his belt, Gil bats him away and tells him to slick up.

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He stretches out to flick open the bedside drawer, ignoring that little twinge in the muscles between his ribs as he fishes out the bottle and wastes no time at all wetting his fingers to press them up between his legs. It’s been a while, but just the push of his own fingers sends endorphins flooding through him. Malcolm’s mouth drops open on a moan and he works himself open as he watches Gil undo his belt.

The moment Gil’s cock comes into view, springing up thick and gorgeous, a reverent, “Fuck, _Daddy_ ,” passes his lips. Saliva floods his mouth, and if he wasn’t so keen on getting that dick in him as soon as possible, he’d ask for a taste.

He loses the thought as Gil pushes onto the bed and on top of him, sending him toppling onto his back. His stomach does flips, and he wishes now he’d eaten even less at dinner. He’d at least avoided anything that he’d be likely to regret. Especially now. Malcolm’s knees fall wide and he squirms to get comfortable with his hand still curved up behind him and his ass crammed full with his fingers.

“That’s it, Bright, make it nice and easy for Daddy,” Gil says, and sends Malcolm’s thoughts scattering.

He moans, and every new thought that tries to form burns to cinders between the crush of their mouths. The slip of Gil’s fingers meet his, rubbing where his rim is stretched taut, and the second he eases his fingers free, Gil’s push in, infinitely thicker and at a much, _much_ better angle. Malcolm chokes on a gasp at the feel of Gil stroking him on the inside and wrests his arm out from under himself to fumble for the bottle of lube. His hand is too slick to grab it properly—the bedding is going to be done for, but it doesn’t matter, not when he eventually catches Gil’s heavy cock in the slippery tunnel of his fist.

“You ready, kid?” Gil’s fingers hook at his rim, twist and lightly tug before slipping out to rub flat over his hole.

“Wait,” Malcolm gasps, grabbing a pillow to cram under him. So much for not having a particular preference for position. His hands flatten to the bedding on either side of him, leaving sticky handprints as he clutches the linens and grinds against the press of Gil’s fingers. “Okay, ready,” he breathes. Although he isn’t entirely. Not in the way that his heart races and he worries that something will shatter the moment. His teeth are on his lip as Gil looks down at him, the air between them laden with questions left unspoken.

“You tell me if you need me to slow down.”

“I will, don’t worry,” Malcolm assures him. He’s never been particularly shy about telling partners what he wants in bed; helpful when in the last few years most of the sex he’s had required negotiation beforehand. He helpfully guides Gil into place, hips canting, a litany of soft, needy noises pouring out of him as Gil’s cock nudges against him hot and hard. He tightens up a bit again and bites back a frustrated groan. It hasn’t been that long since he’s had something up his ass, but this is— This is _Gil’s_ gorgeous fucking cock ready to push into him.

“That’s it, you got it,” Gil says, running a hand down Malcolm’s side like he’s a skittish animal that needs calming. Malcolm almost laughs at the absurdity of it, but it does the trick, distracting him enough that the last resistance in him fades. His body welcomes Gil in with a stuttering slide that slackens his mouth, and he loses all his air on an exhale when Gil mumbles something about how tight he feels. He must tense up further because Gil pauses and asks, “This okay?”

“It’s good,” Malcolm manages, too overwhelmed by the sensation of being filled to elucidate further. Instead, he squeezes to prove it, and when Gil’s eyes slip shut, Malcolm enjoys a deep and satisfying thrill at seeing pleasure written in the crescent cut of dark lashes. In the flicker of his tongue on his lip. In the way Gil holds his breath as he sinks deeper yet into Malcolm’s body. Malcolm watches everything with half-lidded pleasure as he succumbs to the raw deliciousness of that first seemingly endless slide in.

“More than good. It’s amazing really,” he says, finding his tongue again, groaning shamelessly when Gil bottoms out. Gil hangs his head on a lusty exhale and Malcolm turns towards the feather touch of hair tickling against his shoulder. He drags his parted lips over the curve of Gil’s ear, panting lightly, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. “It’s so good, Daddy. Thank you.”

“Bright, don’t—” Gil murmurs. He props himself on an elbow and pushes the hair away from Malcolm’s forehead. His knuckles are coarse and rough as they slip down Malcolm’s cheek. “Don’t thank me for this.”

Malcolm’s brows draw together, thoughts scattering like starlings and taking his flirty smile away with them. If Gil’s already regretting this, there’s got to be something he can do to convince him otherwise. Or is it that he shouldn’t have called him Daddy again? Is it bringing too much attention to the complicated knot of everything that lives between them? “Sorry, I—” he begins, “I just—” But the look on Gil’s face isn’t anywhere near guilt or discomfort. Malcolm’s brow knits tighter as he tries to put together the puzzle staring back at him, full of need and want and something more. Gil’s thumb sweeps down the edge of Malcolm’s jaw and over the point of his chin before pressing briefly at the tender underside—a gesture uniquely possessive—and Malcolm’s eyes widen.

“Malcolm, baby, you thank Daddy for this,” Gil says, and pulls out enough to plunge back into Malcolm hard enough to drive a startled yelp and a gasping exhilarated laugh out of him.

“Oh fu-uck, thank you Daddy,” Malcolm sputters, or tries to, because Gil doesn’t give him a chance to catch his breath. He goes hard and steady until Malcolm’s reaching overhead to clap a hand to the headboard and ride it out. Words try desperately to assemble from the raw noises driven out of him. More thank yous. More curses. More of everything to try and articulate the tangle of lust and love knotted beneath his ribcage.

It doesn’t stay fast and hard forever, Gil slows to a rolling rhythm and pushes his weight up on his wrists to stroke into Malcolm with the sort of depth that makes him hang waiting for the soft slap of Gil’s balls against him. Fuck, it’s perfect. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. Heat builds between them wherever skin meets skin, and Malcolm learns very quickly that when Gil slows down to take his mouth to kiss him, the push of his hips will turn hard again shortly after. That Gil likes feeling his mouth go slack and his breath go choppy. Wants to swallow the high keening whines and soft rasping groans driven out of him by each thrust.

He might have quickly learned to anticipate all of that, but the moment when everything just _stops_ and Gil pulls out without warning steals his breath. Malcolm’s legs stay high and quivering for a moment until it’s clear that Gil’s not just stretching and taking a breather. He stands and smacks Malcolm lightly on the thigh before telling him to stay put. Malcolm watches curiously as he heads towards the kitchen.

Had there been a call and he’d missed the sound of it over all the noise he’d been making? Malcolm sincerely hopes not. He stretches out, slowly rolling onto his belly and doing a brief cobra. There’s the hiss of the tap filling a glass and Gil saunters back into his eyeline. He stands there draining it down, throat working with every swallow; hydrating is always a good idea, Malcolm supposes. Gil could’ve said something though; he would’ve gladly fetched it for him. Although, this is nice too, almost like a little show during intermission.

The light from the windows just barely reaches Gil, outlining the edges of his body. Malcolm scrapes his teeth over his lip as he commits the moment to memory. His gaze skims over Gil’s silhouette, admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the small dark ovals of his nipples, down the planes of his body to where the jut of his dick hangs wet and heavy. It’s so much better than anything he’s ever imagined—or dreamed. Gil looks comfortable here in his space, and coupled with the hungry feeling of waiting for him to return and fuck him full again… Malcolm never wants to forget this. Groaning softly, his hips shift restlessly, and he feels wet and loose and ready for more as he fucks lightly against the bed.

Gil doesn’t seem to mind that he can’t quite keep still. “You stay where I tell you a lot better in the bedroom.” He brings the glass back with him and gestures with it at where Malcolm’s sprawled.

Malcolm’s gaze fixes to the sway of his dick, softened a bit now. “Well,” he says distractedly, moving to perch on his knees again, “it is distinctly to my benefit.” He means for it to be glib, but the moment he hears his own words he knows it cuts a little close to the bone. He glances up. “I’m trying, Gil, I hope you know that.”

Gil sets the glass down and his fond smile triggers a wonderful ache in Malcolm’s chest. “I do, kid. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t believe that.”

That sweet ache warms into a glow when Gil kisses him again, licks against his tongue and follows him down into the soft embrace of the bed. The press of Gil’s weight settling back on top of him is _everything_ , and he reaches down to where Gil’s cock is stiffening up again to give a helping hand, eagerly swallowing the harsh groan Gil makes when his hand twists over the crown and he guides Gil back into place.

Malcolm’s hips twitch fitfully as he’s wedged open, sensation carving a fiery path along his nerves, consuming him until all he can think is how fucking good it feels to have Gil’s cock seated thick inside him. It’s so difficult to shut off his mind at the best of times, but now, like this… “I never want this to end,” he murmurs into Gil’s mouth.

“Yeah?” Gil asks, between slow, sucking kisses. “This still good, Bright? You slick enough?” He takes one last kiss before sitting back on his heels to look down at where he’s buried inside Malcolm. That alone makes Malcolm clench and moan. He’s never wished for a mirror on the ceiling or for a camera at bedside before this moment. If he closes his eyes he can imagine how it must look from Gil’s perspective—the spread of a body in front of him thighs splaying over his own, knees high and ready to be fucked.

Malcolm arches and lets his hands wander down the front of his own body, enjoying feeling wanton and wanted. “It’s good. Oh my God, it’s so good.” He writhes against Gil’s cock, grinding on it, and hooks his hands at the insides of his thighs. His fingers claw into his flesh, wrists bracketing the curve of where he’s rock hard and leaking onto his belly.

The pads of Gil’s fingers trace over his knuckles and Malcolm responds by digging furrows into his thighs, stripes of red that sting and burn. He wants to hear Gil say yes, that he’s loving the feel of Malcolm’s body, but all he gets is: “Can you come when you’re getting fucked, Bright?”

Slowly, Malcolm’s eyes flutter open. He cups his balls, gives them a firm squeeze and gathers them up to clutch them tight near the base of his cock. He keeps grinding lazily against Gil when he remains still, cataloging every little flicker of pleasure that shows on Gil’s face and begging for more all at once. “Most of the time.” Malcolm tongues his lip. “Not always. But that doesn’t mean getting pounded into the mattress is any less satisfying.”

“Good to know. So Daddy shouldn’t try too hard to get you off…” Gil says, and when Malcolm makes a quiet sound of agreement he grabs Malcolm by the hips to haul him down. 

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck!” The surge of lust and pleasure jolting up Malcolm’s spine sends him thrashing. There’s nothing to hold him down and nothing to hold on to as his back drags against the bed and Gil’s cock plunges into him to give him those last sweet inches. He takes fistfuls of bedding, his heels skidding for purchase as he bucks, each desperate twist of his body making him feel the weight of Gil’s cock in him that much more strongly. He gasps and shudders when Gil shoves his knees up and leans back over him, close to a kiss—close to pounding him again. The angle cuts his breath to swift and shallow sips of air, and he licks his lips freshly wet before he tells Gil that Daddy should fuck him until he can’t walk straight.

It might not be the right thing to say because Gil doesn’t kiss him and doesn’t move. The twist of Gil’s mouth hints at a messy tangle of fondness and frustration. “Bright,” he says, the fondness eventually winning out. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“I truly and sincerely hope not.” Tightening his core, Malcolm lifts his head from the pillow and plants a kiss against the corner of Gil’s mouth before dropping back and hooking his hands over the headboard again. He shakes away the hair tickling his forehead, his thighs squeezing against Gil’s bracketing arms. Tongue pressing to the roof of his mouth, he thinks for a moment how fucking amazing it would be to have something in his mouth right now. A hard knot of fingers—no, better, a hard candy. _Fuck._ It’d probably weird Gil out, but imagining having a lollipop in his mouth to twist his tongue around and drip sugar down his throat gets Malcolm’s cock twitching against his belly.

“Don’t worry about getting me off. If it happens it happens, just give it to me, please.”

Gil dips his head down. His lips catching sticky against Malcolm’s bring their own kind of sweetness. “Please what?” he asks in a soft growl, and this time there’s no question what he wants to hear from Malcolm.

“Please, _Daddy,_ ” The shape of the words burn on his lips as they brush against the softness of Gil’s whiskers. A jolt goes through Malcolm, triggering aftershocks at every touchpoint along their bodies. A trembling gasp catches in Malcolm’s chest, his belly shivers and clenches, and his thighs jerk.

Gil rocks forward, fucks him in shallow thrusts, a staccato beat to match the racing of his heart. He sucks air in through his teeth and tips his head back, letting the noise just pour out of him and when Gil’s mouth latches to his pulse and he feels the blood pulled to the surface of his skin he shudders. He’ll be wearing that for days. God. If Gil really would scene with him what would it be like? Would he be the kind of top to want to strap Malcolm down and edge him for hours until he’s boneless and floating with kiss marks scattered along his body?

Or would Gil be interested in striping welts into his skin? To leave him with a red bottom and a throat raw from howling?

Malcolm’s palms turn damp against the wood of the headboard. Dizzied by even the possibility his mind races while Gil falls into a rhythmic pace, hips slapping against his with enough force that he feels it in his teeth. Each thrust is pure perfection, hitting him just right, and when the rush of Gil’s breath turns heavy with the sound of his name, it’s too much of everything. Too much potential and too much to contain. He might come without a hand on him, pushed to the edge by the steady slide of Gil’s cock in him.

It could be that’s what Gil really wants from him—proof messy on his belly. Undeniable evidence that Malcolm needs and wants this from him. And of course he wants it. Of course. He’s never needed anything more. Not even murder.

The sweat and slide, the tingling livewire pleasure. If he can feel like this forever he’d never need to piece together the shatter of his memories, would never need to worry about the darkness lurking inside him.

He knows he thinks this every time he’s tipped towards the edge of raw sexual release. But maybe this time it’s different because it’s _Gil_ bringing him there.

Malcolm uncurls his hands from the headboard and reaches blindly for Gil, wrapping his arms around broad shoulders and clutching tight, palms flat against his strong back. Instantly he feels more connected to the moment and the rhythm of their bodies together, the give and take. The selfishness they share and with it, absolution.

Orgasm takes him by surprise, and Malcolm clings to Gil through the gasping, shuddering mess of it, his come smearing wet between them. When the hot rush subsides, he holds even tighter to Gil and breaks a smile against the column of his throat. “Oh my god, Gil. Oh fuck,” he mumbles, teeth scraping over Gil’s skin. He drags a lick over the faint echo of a bite, mouths a kiss there and does it all over again as he turns languid and boneless, limbs suffused with a glowing warmth. There’s no edgy need now in the way his hands clutch and wander, only the pure enjoyment of bodily contact and the continued pleasure of getting fucked.

“You’re so good to me, Daddy,” he says, eyes sliding shut as Gil picks up the pace. And later, when he’s picturing the feel of hard candy in his mouth again and feels the hot pulse of Gil coming inside him, he says it again in a rough whisper like a prayer.

Eventually they separate, peel apart with soft and sated smiles. When the cottony lightheadedness persists through the time it takes for Gil to hit the bathroom and return, Malcolm recognizes this isn’t normal afterglow. He’s never come close to subspace after such a vanilla fuck before, but the tingling in his limbs is more than just being left well-fucked. He focuses on his breathing to keep present, and feels reasonably stable—mentally anyway—when he slides out of bed.

“My turn, don’t leave, okay?” He staggers towards the bathroom on weak legs. One foot before the other, steady as she goes. He grins drunkenly at his own reflection before turning on the shower. He’s definitely hit a high and it doesn’t feel like his own hands testing the water before he steps in.

Heat stings his skin and he stands beneath the gentle cascade of water, arms slowly wrapping around himself and holding there. It must be for longer than he realizes because his fingers are wrinkling when Gil comes in to check on him.

“This was more intense than I anticipated,” he hears himself say. He closes his eyes, trying to find the right words to explain the headspace he’s in. “It was amazing, don’t get me wrong, I’m just a little overwhelmed. I’ll level out in a bit.”

He expects questions, but Gil simply sheds his shorts and slips into the shower with him. He catches Malcolm’s hand and curls it in his own, and Malcolm looks down at the strong fingers enfolding his. Watches as Gil lifts his hand and uncurls his fingers and sucks on each digit in turn. Blinks as Gil crowds him against the wall and kisses him with a sort of tenderness that should leave him trembling but somehow shores him up instead. 

“Better?”

Malcolm nods and Gil kisses him again, tasting him this time, lazily exploring the curl of his tongue and the edge of his teeth. He melts into it, and eventually his kissing back goes from reflexive to pushing away from the wall until they’re back directly beneath the fall of the water and he’s increasingly aware of the way their bodies align.

“Thanks.” He sucks water off his lip. “Will you stay?”

“You want me to take the couch?”

“I just meant for a bit, but that’s even better.”

Gil drops a kiss to his forehead, squeezes him tighter, and says, “Sure, kid, I can stay.”

  


* * *

  


Malcolm wakes to bright morning light, an empty loft, and a note left near his pills that reads, “Left for work. Eat something. -G”

He smiles and lets Sunshine out of her cage to explore his desk as he goes through his morning routine. Gil calls halfway through his yoga flow to ask him to come in. It’s not the sort of case he’d normally call Malcolm to, so Malcolm knows it’s probably Gil wanting to keep an eye on him to make sure he’s not reacting negatively to last night. Thankfully the drop is well behind him with no lingering low—though it would’ve been worth it—and he’s feeling fantastic by the time he’s showered and dressed and on his way to the crime scene.

JT meets him at the perimeter. “I heard about your date.”

“Oh?” Malcolm’s eyebrow wings upward as he ducks under the tape. He’s a little surprised Gil would share anything at all about last night, but it might be that saying nothing would wind up the rumor mill even more.

“Murder groupie, huh? Would’ve thought that was right up your alley.”

Malcolm’s mouth slants in a wry smile as they approach the body. “Well, maybe things would’ve turned out differently if he hadn’t been obsessed with my father.”

“Ooh, that is rough.”

“Malcolm!” Edrisa says, and he can practically see the words forming in her throat as her gaze skips down to his legs and up again. He thought he’d managed to keep his gait fairly normal despite the pleasant ache lingering in his body, but apparently not, and he isn’t quick enough to distract her with a question before she says, “I see you’ve been dommed!”

JT throws a look at Dani who tosses it right back with her cheeks dimpling as she presses her lips together. Gil casts his gaze to the ceiling and looks like a few years have just been shaved off his lifespan. Amazingly, it isn’t too far from how he normally reacts when someone on his team needs to get ushered back into line.

“As in DOMS,” Edrisa clarifies, as if the detectives should’ve picked up on that. “Delayed onset muscle stiffness. Are you trying that new yoga routine we talked about?”

“I am, actually,” Malcolm says, glad not to be outright lying. “It’s invigorating.”

Edrisa beams and JT blows out a soft puff of air. He leans towards Dani and says, sotto voce, “Good because for a minute there I thought she was referring to something else entirely.”

As Malcolm brushes past them to survey the scene, he says off-handedly, “Well, I do have more than one set of bondage restraints and a second, far less lethal weapon collection.” He enjoys the same sort of smug thrill he gets whenever giving Ainsley a taste of her own medicine when his frank confession startles a laugh out of Dani. She elbows JT and tells him he deserved that and Malcolm feels one step closer to belonging.

“The body, Bright,” Gil says, but Malcolm doesn’t need the reminder. He’s already focused on the task at hand, crouching down to get a better look.

They’ll definitely need to talk later, him and Gil, and work out just where things stand between them, but for the moment—Malcolm hides a smile at the thrill lancing through him as he notices several discrepancies between wound patterns and blood spatter—this new case might be just the thing to keep him going another day.

**Author's Note:**

> Read more of my [Prodigal Son fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=Prodigal+Son+%28TV+2019%29&user_id=ponderosa121), or talk to me about this twink getting wrecked on Twitter [@ponderosa121](https://twitter.com/ponderosa121) or on Discord in [Prodigal Son Trash](https://discord.gg/fQaRgBD).


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